The Open Gate

Beckoning, the open gate,
On a summer morn;
Lonesome in the sun, sedate,
Yet a touch forlorn

Graves of many, long ago,
Who lived near this place;
Disrepair, but even so,
It’s a lovely trace

Sleeping, on the mountainside,
In a hundred beds,
Flowerings of humankind
Each last petal sheds

Let the trees grow strong and high
And the wind blow straight:
We’ll all be here by-and-by,
Past the open
Gate

murray river basin

the earth is thirsty

the earth is thirsty so am i
out past where we all come to die
alone and without celebrant
a wastrel bard irrelevant
the half-cocked eye the shaking lip
fair captain of a foundered ship
the desert plain of fated need
to thirst to ache
to drop

to bleed

The Show Goes On

The show goes on; the dead have played their part.
But still we wait for one more cue, or line:
Those ne’er said words that we have known by heart,
And memorized, as though a valentine

That we will never feel in hand, or see.
The looked for, listened for, and waited on
That will not heed our cry, or hear our plea;
For love’s most fully owned when it is gone.

The show goes on; the dead have played their role,
But there’s no point in dialogue, or mark;
You live, although you’re missing half your soul,
A sunflower within the gray and dark —

    For none of it makes any kind of sense,
    The scene, the plot, the play, the

    Audience

For All That Dreamers Dream

… there is a cost.

For those who know, the quiet’s like a salve;
A balm to soothe the aching, wounded soul –
A therapeutic that is there to have
Whenever life or liars leave a hole

A whole entire world of wondrous sights
Will open up for those who scale the heights –
Upon the wind of solitude to soar;
The nadir and the apex – what they’re for –

For all that dreamers dream, there is a cost:
The peace that’s needed, just to take in breath –
The separation that is part of death –
The death that is the dream forever lost

Lost everywhere, but not beyond reclaim:
For love’s a dream with wings, and knows no shame

Mendicant Dreams

Wraith-like, twisting
My dream sweeps out
With menaced urgency

Lighting on some
Ancestral shrine
Where my soul longs to be

The grasses, bending,
Supplicant
Whisper how I should stay

The grave welcomes
A mendicant
Who cannot find his way

But I will be there
Soon enough
The tomb – what’s left of me

For now, I am one
With the clouds
Beside
The Irish
Sea